


I love you

by egmon73



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Bad Parenting, Hurt Greg Lestrade, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Misunderstandings, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 11:28:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15773208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egmon73/pseuds/egmon73
Summary: In a relationship, sometimes what you think you have said it is not exactly what your partner has understood. If you are dating a Holmes, this concept probably is stretched to the extremes. It challenges one’s idea of pride, priorities and willingness to open one’s heart and speak about one’s feeling, contrary to the “stiff upper lip” mantra of the average British male. Are Greg and Mycroft willing to open up to save their relationship?





	I love you

**Author's Note:**

> This work has been betaed by dmdiane. She did an amazing job of improving, suggesting, correcting my poor text. Thank you so much!

“I said I love you.” Greg felt anger boiling up.

“And I said it is not possible that you love me. Your thoughts are in this very moment clouded by the effect of post coital hormones imbalance and you cannot discern your feelings coherently.” Mycroft was sitting on the bed where they just made love, his back leaning on the headboard, the only hint to their lovemaking being his hair somewhat ruffled, but for the rest he was composed, and… giving a lecture as if Greg was a total stranger. Not the man who was inside him 10 minutes ago.

Greg has never said I love you lightly. Mycroft was only the second partner he said I love you to, for God’s sake. The second after his ex-wife. He was not expecting an ‘I love you’ in return; he was not expecting a trial for saying it either.

“Why on earth isn’t it possible that I love you, now?” Greg raised his voice in disbelief. “I know you’re a sort of mind reader, but even you can’t understand my feelings _better than I do_!” For God’s sake he did not plan the ‘I love you’, it came out. However, he felt it, he was sure, and he has felt it for a while. Why was this all going pear-shaped?

Mycroft wore a cold mask, the blue in his eyes vanished in favour of the steel grey. Ah, Greg knew what was going on. His lover lifted his impenetrable walls and was in full defence mode. Normally, Greg was willing to take the time to unwind him and slowly form a crack in the fortress; he knew the warmth he could find behind. But not today. He felt stabbed when he expressed his feelings and it was hurting; being questioned like that was bloody painful. He thought… now was not the time to linger in what he thought.

“Listen Mycroft, frankly speaking I don’t know what is going on in your head and in this very moment I don’t have the patience to find it out. You understand your behaviour is hurting me, don’t you? It sounds pretty much like rejection.”

Mycroft looked honestly bewildered. His gaze narrowed to a laser. “There is nothing to reject, Gregory. As I said, you cannot be sure you love me.”

Greg felt a punch in his stomach and blinked a couple of times. “Is this… is this another of your insecurity attacks? Like when you didn’t want to show me your naked body and I had to convince you I find you very attractive? When I had to-”

Cold grey eyes became threatening and Mycroft raised his chin. “I do not have _insecurity attacks_.” Every word was spit out.

Okay, maybe not the best wording. Greg, still somehow shocked from Mycroft’s transformation from warm soft and pliant just few minutes before, rose from the bed and started collecting his clothes. Clumsily, he dressed, eyeing Mycroft every few seconds. The man did not move a single millimetre, nor proffer an additional word.

“Mycroft, listen, I need some fresh air. I think I’m going back to my flat.”

Greg collected all his things and left, closing the door of Mycroft’s flat behind him. The cold night air hit him violently and he welcomed the feeling: he still felt wrapped in an unreal world and needed a shake. He had no clue what just happened.

***

Mycroft heard Greg’s footsteps receding toward the door followed by the slam. He knew this moment was inevitable. He felt ripped in two. No one in his 49 years of life had told him ‘I love you.’ No one, a friend, a family member, a partner managed to formulate these three little words and throw them at him. He probably was not capable of stimulating those feelings in anyone. He knew sentiments were chemical defects, but his heart unfortunately was difficult to convince. His first ‘I love you’, said moments ago by one of the few people he really ever cared about, was a failure. As expected. Eyes wet, he bit the soft skin of the inside of his cheeks hard enough to regain control of his emotions. After a while, he tasted the iron flavour of blood. A few sobs resonated in the house.

***

Greg was internally aching badly. He had what he thought was a good healthy potentially long lasting relationship with a man who, despite his cool appearance, was a hidden gem. A perfect fit. He longed for the presence of the quiet, controlled, caring genius. They were seeing each other regularly and spending all the nights work gave them free together … Mycroft’s absence was intolerable, like a missing piece of himself. Pondering over the situation caused far too much distress, so Greg did what he usually did: dove into work. There was an enormous amount of paperwork waiting that he always postponed in favour of more physical activities, paperwork that seemed the perfect distraction from his inner pain and sorrow.

After five 16 hour days of paperwork and no message or sign from Mycroft Holmes, Sally opened the door of his office and sniffed the air wrinkling her nose.

“Boss, I’m sorry, but…” she did not finish her sentence but her face morphed in a disgusted expression.

“But what, Donovan?” He knew he did not look at his best. During the past week, his routine was to go home very late in the evening, crash on the sofa and after few hours of unsatisfactory sleep, head back to the Met and more work.

Sally looked in his eyes. “You reek”.

Greg opened his mouth to scold her insubordination, but then lowered his eyes and looked at himself. He had not changed his clothes in the past 6 days. He did not remember whether he had showered either. How did he manage to demean himself that much? He looked back at Sally. “I’m sorry. I had too much work and I lost track of the days.”

Sally was a detective, not so easily fooled, and he saw in her eyes that she did not believe him. However, she said nothing and left his office, followed shortly afterwards by Greg who decided to take her not so subtle advice and call it a day.

Unfortunately, being home meant dealing with his thoughts and his internal turmoil was not much better than a few days before. But, he could not simply run away from himself forever, so he decided to have a shower, change his clothes and then analyse the situation. In that order. He went in the bathroom where he started undressing and registered exactly the extent of his stench. He sniffed at himself and it was definitely revolting. What would Mycroft have said?

_Mycroft._

Greg let out a long sigh and opened the tap, throwing himself under the stream. He allowed himself to linger and relax under the rivulet of hot water, dwarfed by the luxurious streams coming out of the armature in Mycroft’s en suite. There, they showered at the same time, and often indulged in additional activities beyond cleaning themselves, because Mycroft had one of the most erotic bodies he has ever undressed. His skin was creamy, decorated with freckles which darkened the upper part of his back and thinned out towards his pert buttocks. The simple thought of Mycroft’s skin made Greg’s penis twitch. “Sorry to disappoint you, but he is not here,” Greg murmured, taking his shaft in hand. He masturbated a lot after his divorce, using the resulting endorphins as a drug. After the beginning of his relationship with Mycroft, he did not feel the need of it any more, he could wait even when Mycroft was absent, because sex with the minor official was much better than any lonely wank. The tiny high-pitched noises that Mycroft made when aroused and the sensitivity of his nipples and inner thighs, a slight touch of which always made the redhead arch under his hands…

His orgasm came hard and he wobbled, balancing himself immediately by putting his hands on the walls. He had not even realized he was stroking himself while daydreaming about Mycroft. After another minute spent to regain a clear head and rinse the sperm from the wall, he turned off the water and grabbed a towel. The blue fluffy one. The one Mycroft used when staying at his flat.

_Stop it!_

So what went wrong exactly? He analysed while he towelled dry. Everything seemed to proceed normally, they had a nice dinner, some making out on the sofa and then they made love in Mycroft’s bed. Nothing different from many other evenings they spent together, with the exception of that damn ‘I love you’ utterance. Honestly, he thought Mycroft – who could deduce even better than Sherlock – already knew it. It was not even hurried. They were middle aged, who have been dating for 7 months – not to count the years of prior friendship. They seemed fairly happy together. Mycroft was opening up from the stiff, reserved man he was at the beginning, he was learning to ask for what he wanted even in intimacy. Greg smiled at the memories: initially Mycroft only had sex with the full pyjamas on and lights off, now he was inviting himself in the shower with Greg… well not now. A week ago. Greg shook his head. _Concentrate_. So, what was wrong? Mycroft was not shocked or perturbed by the revelation of Greg’s feelings; he simply did not consider them, did not believe that Greg could love him. Why? Did he fail to show his love for him? Was it true what his former wife always said, that he had no time and only thought about his job and not about family? Was Mycroft feeling the same neglect? He never said anything.

Greg paced in the living room with the towel around his hips. There was probably only one way to know what went wrong. Mycroft was much more important than pride. He sent a message.

  * I would like to talk to you. When are you free for a chat?



After few minutes, he received a reply.

  * I am not available at the moment. I will inform you when I am back on British soil. MH



It was not so rare for Mycroft to fly away for an indefinite amount of time in some foreign remote location. At least he did not get a no as an answer. He could wait.

***

The unspecified amount of time resulted in a further 3 weeks before Greg received another sign of life from the elder Holmes. In the meantime, his hands were full of the younger of the brother and a reckless killer who was slaughtering several humans and animals according to ‘oh Geoff, haven’t you understood the pattern yet?’ (no, otherwise I would not have called you, damn it). The gruesome murders at least had the positive side effect of removing Mycroft’s presence from his brain, either because he had to concentrate on the indicia or on Sherlock’s monologues or because he was too tired to think after days of restless investigating. Sherlock was euphoric, bouncing around while shouting that the case was at least an 8. Greg tolerated his nonsensical almost offending glee because he wanted to catch the culprit; he saw nothing exciting in skinned and eviscerated homeless people or animals. The images of the mangled bodies would haunt him for decades, he was sure of it.

They tried to cover the deaths as discretely as possible so as not to panic the population. The human victims were homeless people, all males and middle aged. No sign of firearm wounds, probably all suffocated during their sleep or inebriation because no sign of struggle was discovered. Their arms and legs skin was carefully removed, as well as random organs, not always the same. For Greg’s sanity, Molly had confirmed that skin and organs were always taken after the death of the person. Cats, the only animals which were attacked, suffered the same fate. They could have been stray cats or pets, it did not matter. The dead bodies of humans and animals were then thrown in dumpsters. A shocked waste collector discovered the first death body during his early morning shift.

For Greg it all made little sense, why on earth someone would be so cruelly attacking random homeless people and cats? Skinning and removing organs afterwards, on top of it. Luckily, it seemed that, somehow, Sherlock had some clue and his team and he were constantly running after the detective, and John who was constantly at his heels, around London.

At the end of the day in which finally they arrested the murderer - a Ukrainian-born professor of psychiatry with a couple of PhDs and a horror story of a childhood – Greg’s mobile pinged.

  * If you are amenable, I am at home this evening. MH



Greg was not really looking forward to having such a conversation in that very moment, he was exhausted and not completely emotionally stable, however he was scared to postpone his rendezvous with Mycroft. For what he knew, the government official could have a trip to Uzbekistan planned the next day, lasting a month.  If he wanted to salvage their relationship, he needed to meet the redhead as soon as possible. He quickly typed:

  * Give me 3 hours.



He waited till he was sure that his team finished its tasks, checked on Sherlock who was already sleeping, asked John whether he was going to safely bring him home, and then found a café where he increased his blood caffeine concentration and used the toilet to wash his face and hands. He looked a mess and could not do much about it, however he felt a bit more human than before. He tried to push away the creepy images of all the blood he had seen in the past weeks and took the metro towards Mycroft’s home. Last time he was there had been exactly one month ago.

He rang the bell and the gate opened immediately. He entered the flat, straightening his shoulders. He mentally prepared himself for a difficult conversation, and in particular he tried not to be overwhelmed by the pain he still felt, which could easily turn into anger. He did love Mycroft, but the man’s behaviour was hard to accept; he seriously hoped there was some reasonable explanation for it.

The light in the hallway was very dim and his eyes were still trying to adjust to the darkness, when he was pushed against one of the walls by a human silhouette crashing lips on his. There was no gentleness in the kiss, there was too much strength involved, too many teeth, and possibly too much raw need. Greg felt hands opening the zip of his trousers searching for his cock. Mycroft freed and stroked it a couple of times with his long fingers when Greg came hard and fast from the shock of the assault.

“Mycroft, Mycroft, hey, hold on! Wait a minute!” he tried to swat the redhead’s hands away, gently but resolutely. It took several attempts to gain a couple of centimetres between him and the other man. “Mycroft, stop!” Finally, the redhead did stop.

Greg looked at his lover. The more he took in what he was seeing, the more disconcerted he became. Mycroft did not appear like his usual prim and proper self, his eyes were bloodshot, black bags were clearly visible under them; he had gained at least ten pounds since the last time they had been together. While Greg was trying to make some sense out of it, Mycroft started speaking, with his cold voice, the one he used to give commands, not the voice he used generally in the framework of their relationship.

“You do not want to engage in sexual intercourse?”

A distressed Mycroft sounded just ridiculous.

Greg concentrated on formulating a reasonable answer while he tucked himself in and zipped his trousers. “No, not now. We need to talk.”

“Isn’t sex what we normally do?” Mycroft snarled.

“No… I mean yes, but, Mycroft, we need to clarify things before even thinking about sex. Don’t you remember exactly one month ago what happened after sex? I told you I love you and you substantially closed down and called me a liar!”

“It was not in the rules!” Mycroft yelled. Normally, Mycroft did not yell.

Greg blinked a couple of times. “Which rules are we talking about?”

“The ones you set! The ones to be followed during a relationship!”

Greg did not know whether it happened due to the sudden sex, to the lack of sleep in the past weeks, to the emotional shock caused by the gruesome killings, or maybe to the fact that his patience was already strained by the younger Holmes, in any case his brain - not finding any logic in all the discussion – gave up. His eyes and thoughts started wandering, trying to find an anchor, and he noticed the strained buttons of Mycroft’s waistcoat. The sight was such an inconsistency in the usually otherwise perfect attire of the man that Greg burst out laughing hysterically.

Mycroft realized the cause of mirth, of course he did.

“My weight gain makes my body undesirable to you,” he stated matter-of-fact, and then he turned, went into his office and slammed the door.

Greg wanted to scream. For the second time in a row, he exited Mycroft’s flat much more confused than when he entered it.

***

The next few days were hell. Greg had underestimated the media appeal of the serial murder case; the details of the killings, kept secret during the investigation and now revealed, and the personality and life of the professor-killer ignited an unprecedented media circus. The professor had been already named “Hannibal of London”. Great. As far as Greg knew, there was no cannibalism involved, but that did not stop the newspapers from using the sensationalistic nickname. As the senior leading inspector for the case, he was requested – or better forced - by his boss to attend several press conferences.

The details which were emerging about the case were indeed worth a movie. The professor’s family was killed when the professor was very young and it seemed that the man’s actions were a sort of revenge for those killings. It still had to be confirmed, but it seemed that Hannibal as a kid had to witness indescribable tortures performed on his parents and siblings and those sights had altered his mind. The killers were dressed in dirty and ruined clothes, probably Russia-backed separatists fleeing from the government. This fact might have pushed the professor’s young imaginative mind to associate the killers with homeless people.

From the first interrogations, it became apparent that the professor, who was stable enough for several years to teach psychiatry at London university, having an acclaimed academic record, started the killing spree due to the witnessing of a cat killing a mouse and eviscerating it. His parents had been eviscerated too.

However, the whole bestiality of the story still had to become clear in all its gruesome details. It would take time to understand the Ukrainian man’s mind and exactly what had happened to him.

In any case, for once, a huge case had been solved before it went viral and the Met wanted to use the favourable publicity to get additional funds to hire more police officers. Greg understood the good purpose, he was even in favour of it, but he hated being one of the protagonists of the show. Once they even tried to cover his face with concealer! Not to mention the… fangirls?... that waited for him outside the Met or the court, in chorus singing “Lestrade, Lestrade”. How can the real VIPs survive that on a daily basis? The singers or the actors, do they really have their privacy so violated? Reporters had started asking him embarrassing private questions, including his relationship status. Twisting the knife in his wound.

Paperwork, managing Sherlock who had still to explain in understandable English how the Londoner Hannibal performed certain killings, and preparing for the interviews with the journalists ate every single minute of his time. In all honesty, he also had to get acquainted with the case itself, because every day new revelations from the interrogatories of Hannibal were available. Mycroft Holmes remained a painful bruise on his heart, covered by layers of exhaustion. Even if he wanted to examine and reflect upon the debacle at Mycroft’s home, the flashes of the photographers forced him to change his mind immediately.

The frenzy reached its peak during a live interview where Greg was kissed on the mouth by a member of the so-called ‘Met-fan-club’ who decided he was adorable and in need of a kiss. Just to mention, the girl, because we are talking about a girl, was 21 years old. Greg never felt so embarrassed in his life. He felt even worse when, the same evening, at home, he realized he had received a message.

  * Glad to notice that I have been already replaced. MH



If he had not felt totally knackered, he would have banged his head on the wall.

***

The fact that now he was the poster man of the Met did not automatically lower the pile of the paperwork the Hannibal case had created.  Further, coercing Sherlock into giving evidence was a wayward task, his interest for the case fading away after he had cracked it. All the pushing John and he could exert managed to convince the world’s only consulting detective to explain his chain of thoughts for more or less 10 minutes per day, after which he started sulking and uttering insults to anyone passing by. In order to avoid riots inside the Met, already fostered by Greg’s sudden popularity, which triggered his colleagues’ jealousy, his only option was to record the 10 minutes of monologue, hoping for no interruption, and then let Sherlock go, praying for a continuation the next day.

At the end of one of the 10 minutes sessions, however, Sherlock remained glued to the chair. Greg, used to the sudden devoid-of-any-greetings disappearance of the detective, was already re-hearing the speech to type it on the computer. A few seconds passed before he realized he was under Sherlock’s scrutiny and raised his head, locking eyes with Sherlock’s.

“What?” he asked, perplexed. “Would you like to continue?” he added, hopeful.

“You have decided to end your association with my brother.”

There was no judgement in his voice, just a statement, as if ending a relationship was like buying a sack of potatoes. Emotionless. Greg covered his face with his hand.

“I didn’t end anything. Maybe your brother did something of the sort.” Greg did not really want to believe that his relationship with Mycroft was over, but he had not received any messages from the man since the assault; no reply to his texts, no answers to his calls. As if a black hole had swallowed him.

Sherlock tilted his head and one could hear the wheels turning in his head.

“Does he know?”

“Does he know what, Sherlock?” Greg said, exhausted. Why his interactions with the Holmes’ siblings always ended up with him being completely confused he would never know.

As in order to underline his thought, Sherlock jumped up from the chair and with his hallmark coat’s whirlwind left the office. Greg realized he still had his mouth hanging open so he closed it. The Holmes’ brothers were going to be the death of him.

***

Fuck. The whole United Kingdom was watching NSY, praising their wit, their investigation techniques, their teams… and suddenly the Hannibal of London was on the run. Granted, he had an IQ of the level of the Holmes’ brothers. Notwithstanding, they should have taken the available - _and even the not available for God’s sake_ \- measures to secure his stay in jail. Now the same reporters who were admiring them the day before just turned with the wind and started writing articles about their incompetence.

Fate decided that withstanding the mocking of the reporters was not enough. No. Fate added to that Sherlock’s resuscitated enthusiasm and glee for the new case, a battle with a genius, another 8 on his whimsical scale. Greg was in the crossfire, on one side the journalists broadcasting “incompetent” and on the other Sherlock shouting “idiot”.

Greg had had a private life. He had had a relationship. Had, past tense. After one month of running after the Ukrainian professor, Greg felt 10 years older. Maybe he should think of early retirement and claim a sort of private life back, although his potential private life seemed as desolate as his real life. He missed Mycroft so badly it was an almost physical pain.

Finally, and this time not thanks to Sherlock’s deductions but to much more basic legwork meticulously performed by Greg’s team, they found the professor hiding in some forgotten metro’s underground channels. A trail of bloody carcasses of slaughtered animals revealed his position; one simply had to look where the number of dead corpses increased. Despite all his genius, the professor’s actions were more and more dominated by sheer madness. What a loss. Greg even felt uneasy because, after having heard what the professor had had to withstand as a kid, the DI admitted he would have gone insane himself. Seeing your whole family tortured and killed in front of you, with the same modus operandi he was using to kill people and animals now, can do that to an individual. Despite the understanding and the empathy, however, his task was to stop him from killing again, because the professor’s victims had no fault in what had happened. 

Together with some technician sent by the Ministry of Transport (his heart felt a sharp pain at hearing the name, although he knew that Mycroft’s minor position at that ministry was just a cover), they studied the whole underground channels’ net and all possible entries and exits. Late in the evening, several police teams were positioned, armed, at selected locations; the number of deployed agents was definitely exaggerated for capturing a single person, however they could not afford a failure. Greg coordinated the south-west team, he was at one of the channel’s entrances, both feet already wet from the water present on the channel floor. Water dripped from walls and ceiling as well; the environment was saturated with moisture, and gloomy as hell. Greg thought his life was depressing enough, and he was not going to allow the atmosphere of the place to influence him. He checked the exact time to start operations with the other coordinators and gave the order to his team to stand ready. As he closed the radio connection a loud bang echoed nearby and pain exploded in his chest. He struggled for his next breaths, aware that he was bleeding profusely. Before he could respond at all, darkness wrapped him completely.

***

Greg woke up in hospital. He looked around and saw an IV line attached to his arm, probably full of good drugs; he felt no major pain, just a little sore and a little high. Memories of the operation in the tunnel drifted back slowly and he wondered whether the professor had been arrested. So typical of him to think about duty even after such an experience. The drugs were possibly the cause of the disorientation and dizziness he felt. He noticed his torso was covered in thick bandages and his right side had several layers of a complex dressing. Before he could touch it, a nurse barged in the room.

“Good morning Mr Lestrade! Glad to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

Greg wanted to answer that he felt like singing, but somehow that didn’t seem appropriate. He settled for smiling.

The nurse looked around. “I see that the gentleman who stayed here overnight is gone. He’s definitely going to be happy to receive the news that you’ve woken up.”

 _Gentleman? Who?_ Despite curiousity about his injuries and his visitor, Greg was too tired to think further and slipped back into Morpheus’ arms.

When he woke up again, the pain was more intense. He felt like a van was resting on his chest. He was surrounded by doctors and nurses, who were examining both his body and the monitors of the beeping machines around him. One of the doctors addressed him.

“Good morning, Mr Lestrade.”

 _Morning? Again?_ His brain was functioning faster than during the previous awakening. _Have I slept for 24 hours?_

With a hoarse voice, he managed to answer. “Good morning, doctor...?”

“I am doctor McCoy and you are at the London Bridge Hospital. Two days ago, you underwent surgery for a ballistic trauma which caused a tension pneumothorax. You have been very lucky; no damages to bones or any other organs beside your lung, the bullet went through your body. You needed several bags of blood transfused into your system. There is now a tube inserted in your chest, we will remove it soon. Everything went well and I expect you will have a full recovery, however care and rest will be needed for the following weeks,” the doctor finished with a small smile.

Greg concentrated on the “everything went well” portion of the speech and, for a moment, he forgot the pain. A hand movement of the doctor to remove his bandages brought it back in full force and tears formed in his eyes.

“Mr Lestrade, I understand that you are in pain, we’ll try to increase the level of painkillers, but we would like to stop flooding you with opiates. The nurse will modify your IV composition accordingly. If it becomes intolerable, let us know.”

Greg nodded, everything else was just too painful; the doctor changed the dressing, murmuring reassuring words in the meantime, showing his colleagues that the suturing job had been perfectly performed. McCoy and colleagues left quickly afterwards, but the nurse that had greeted Greg during his first awakening remained there.

“So, that friends of yours, where is he?” She winked, checking in the meantime the data provided by the machines attached to Greg.

_Who on earth could have been here?_

“Mmmm…a description would be helpful”.

The nurse looked at him a bit suspiciously, but the warm smile came back to her lips quickly and she started describing. “You know, a very elegant man, nicely dressed in a suit, grey eyes and long nose, tall and thin…constantly carrying an umbrella! He was so arrogant at the beginning! He wanted to know everything about you and your status, but he didn’t want to mention who he was! I know that our manager talked to him and afterwards … he could do whatever he wanted. You have a very caring boyfriend, you know? He made sure that the best surgeon in this hospital took care of you. And, as you see, you have a single room, a luxury only few have. He stayed here through the whole surgery, and the night afterwards, till the doctors told him that everything went well and your conditions were stable.”

 _Mycroft!_ Mycroft was there. Greg’s heart started beating so fast that one of the machines emitted an acute beep and the nurse started fussing around. Mycroft still cared about him.

“Hey, hey, calm down!” The nurse started fretting with various buttons. “If I‘d known that the mention of your boyfriend would have caused this...” The woman continued checking the various machines and eyeing him worriedly. She was a stocky woman, broad of shoulder and frame, big hands and an open sincere face. Greg was comforted by her capable care and his heartbeat slowed.

 _My boyfriend._ Yes, he wanted Mycroft as his boyfriend. As his boyfriend, his friend, his lover, his hope for a happy future. Mycroft had been there, checking on him, which must mean that he still had some interest in him. They had had a mature fulfilling relationship and for some unfathomable reason it slipped through his fingers. He had faced death few days ago. It was time to review his priorities. In that very moment, he decided to move Mycroft to place number 1.

***

 

After 5 days, Greg was allowed to leave the hospital, but he had still 2 weeks of home recovery before being able to return to work, and only then on light duty for another 3 weeks. He was substantially confined at home. Forced to rest, he spent much of the time stretched out on the sofa or in bed. At the beginning, he felt weak and was often in pain, but he quickly realized that he was regaining strength day by day.

He was astonished to find his face again displayed in all newspapers and TV channels. After Greg was shot, his team had indeed arrested “Hannibal.” He became the hero, the brave police officer shot down on duty while trying to catch a dangerous criminal. In reality, he had not even realized that the “dangerous criminal” was behind him. He was barking orders, to be honest, when the bullet reached him. It did not matter, he understood that the “truth” told by the journalists was one “version of what happened”, generally the one which could generate the biggest emotional response from the public. 

His forced rest allowed him to study in depth the part of the Hannibal case he missed while in hospital. It seemed the professor shot Greg because Greg looked like one of the men who murdered the professor’s Ukrainian family in his youth. Greg had not realized it, but the fact that he constantly worked in the presence of Sherlock, John and the other police officers’ substantially saved his life. The professor was no longer able to differentiate between reality and hallucination. He wanted Greg dead. The time Greg spent as the Met poster man allowed the professor to study his face in detail and somehow convince himself that Greg was indeed one of the killers from the past. His intentions were to capture and torture Greg, but being that the DI was always with someone else prevented him from success.

Greg shivered. When the professor realized that he was going to be caught, he decided to shoot first, regardless of his previous plans. Greg had to die at all costs for what he had done; the Londoner Hannibal was still convinced of that and, from his jail cell, was listing Greg’s alleged atrocities. An article had been already written about that list. Greg shook his head. He was curious about the content of the psychiatrists’ expertise regarding “Hannibal” mental status and health. How much can a person be considered responsible in cases like this? He knew it was a damn difficult question, and, in practice, even the legal system in different countries answered it differently. He did not know his own answer. He was in favour of justice, always, but the professor did not receive justice when he was a kid. Nor had the people he killed, on the other hand. Bloody difficult question. He only knew that the real killers of the professor’s family were at least as guilty as the professor himself.

He should have felt rage against the man; he could have died if one of his vital organs had been hit or if he had arrived to the hospital too late. However, he could not find anger, he was shaken yes, had nightmares, but towards his shooter the closest sentiment he felt was possibly pity.

The concept of responsibility was indeed complex and multi-faceted. Greg considered the Holmes’s siblings, for example. They were all born within the same family, a weird and rather cold family from the very few things Mycroft shared, and they became three very different people. Take Mycroft, emotionally constipated (at least before Greg), without friends, incredibly insecure within normal relationships that had nothing to do with his work, caring for his other siblings immensely. Sherlock, self-proclaimed sociopath, former drug addict, who cared so much for his few friends he had faked his own death. Eurus, the cleverest, a psychopath who did not even know what caring was. Was Eurus responsible for what she was? Were any of them responsible for their “weirdness” and, if yes, in what measure?

Was Mycroft responsible for all aspects of his personality? Responsible for his difficulties in expressing emotions, and in understanding them? For his awkward behaviour in their relationship? If you spend your childhood taking care of a mad sibling, an overactive one, and being ignored by your parents, probably responsibility should be at least shared with someone else. Mycroft managed to become a beautiful person. He could have been emotionally empty, given the premises. On the contrary, he was emotionally full, just no one taught him how to deal with all those feelings. Greg remembered when Mycroft warned him that he was not doing relationships because he was not good at them. When Greg asked what it meant, Mycroft answered that he did not know the rules.

Greg had to explain that there were different types of love relationships. The casual ones, where you do not commit to your partner, they also include those named friends with benefits, you enjoy those while they last. The serious ones, where you try to make it stable and you show yourself to your partner. The rules in the two are different. 

When he started to date his then future wife, he did not know from the beginning that he would have married her, he disclosed to Mycroft. They dated, explained to each other what they were looking for, started living together, realized they loved each other and then married. What he did during his relationship with her was fairly standard, in his opinion, his friends more or less did the same. Mycroft listened carefully to all that. He always was an amazing listener, he made Greg feel important, all that Holmesian attention on him.

From his sofa, where he sat surrounded by pillows, Greg grabbed his mobile and started typing.

  * Thank you for your help at the hospital
  * The nurse told me you were there



He waited few minutes, but no answer. He sent another message.

  * I would like to talk to you



Greg put the mobile back and switched on the TV, watching the news, and another piece on the Londoner Hannibal. An Arsenal match followed, which was perfect entertainment for a bit. Unfortunately, he could not yet drink beer - doctor’s orders - but popcorn was allowed. He had a bowl already prepared on the coffee table between the couch and the TV, next to the mobile. During the break between the first and second halves, he took the mobile again.

  * I really want to see you, Mycroft



The second half started and the bowl of popcorn was already empty. Arsenal was winning so he could settle in to watch the rest without comfort food. Towards the end of the second half, Arsenal still leading, he sent another message.

  * Please, Mycroft. You are very important to me



After the end of the match, while he was preparing to go to bed, he heard the ping of the mobile. His heart somersaulted when Mycroft’s name showed up on the display.

  * I do not see any reason for a meeting. MH



With his heart still not back at normal frequency, Greg answered.

  * 7 months of the most beautiful relationship I have ever had is a good reason



Because there was no reply for a while, after having washed his face and brushed his teeth, Greg texted again from bed.

  * I almost died few days ago. I had many thoughts afterwards. Give me a chance



Still nothing.

  * Please Mycroft. One chance



This time a reply arrived promptly.

  * What are you suggesting? MH
  * A simple chat. Nothing more. I have to ask you to come here to my place, I am still on sick leave
  * Please
  * Tomorrow, 9 p.m. MH
  * Done! Thank you, Mycroft



A gigantic grin appeared on Greg’s face. _Yes!_ He now had to think it through very carefully because he could not screw it up. The best strategy would probably be to be open and to put his feeling into words, without leaving any margin of doubt to his intention and desires. He could do that, or at least he hoped.

***

Yesterday, everything seemed easier. Since he woke, Greg was nervous about the evening meeting. He felt anxiety clouding his brain and squeezing his stomach; he was so tense that at any moment he could snap. _Breathe._ These were not the most favourable conditions for a productive discussion with Mycroft. He had to calm down, somehow. Greg went back to his mobile. He had taken several pictures of the minor official during their 7 months together. Despite all Mycroft’s protests, he managed to have a nice collection of “selfies” where both of them were present. He started from the first one, taken during their first month together, showing a stiff and rigid Mycroft looking at the camera as if someone had announced his death sentence. He scrolled through. In the last one, Mycroft was smiling while Greg kissed his cheek. In between, there was a continuum, a slow constant melting of the iceman, Mycroft’s smiles getting wider and wider, reaching his eyes in the last pics.  Greg closed the mobile and inhaled deeply. He needed to give his best.

At exactly 9 p.m., the bell rang. Mycroft. Greg opened the door and he found the redhead in front of him, immaculately dressed in the pinstriped battle three-piece-suit, umbrella hooked on an arm. Greg’s heart was already having a difficult time, battling with his logical mind who forbade him to hug Mycroft immediately and to kiss him on the spot.

“Come on in,” Greg said, shifting aside. The brush of Mycroft’s shoulder on his sent a wave of small thrills along Greg’s spine. _Calm down._

Greg guided Mycroft into his kitchen-living room and the better illumination therein allowed him to have a comprehensive look at his … whatever Mycroft was for him in that very moment. The minor official looked exhausted and worn out. It was not only the weight gain that changed his appearance; his face was different too, he had the look of a person who had been defeated. Greg swallowed and the battle between his heart and mind continued.

“Mycroft, please, sit down,” Greg said, pointing to a chair in front of the table. “Do you want something to drink? Tea?”

For the first time since he arrived, Mycroft spoke, “no, thank you”, and sat. His back was perfectly straight, his shoulders rigid, legs closed, and he placed his hands on his thighs. He remained in that position, still as a statue, refusing to make eye contact.

Greg shivered. It did not look promising at all. He sat on a chair close to Mycroft, positioning himself in front of the redhead to study his facial expressions. He was hoping that something could give at least some of Mycroft’s feelings away, supplying Greg with some clues or hints of what was going on in the Holmes’ head.

An awkward silence stretched between the two men, Mycroft immobile and silent, Greg at a loss for words and overwhelmed by anxiety. 

 _Okay._ Greg gathered all his courage and started speaking, looking at Mycroft, regardless of the fact that the latter continuously avoided his eyes. “So… I am not sure about how to start, but I’d like first of all to clarify some things.” Mycroft did not move a single muscle. Greg closed his fists and continued. “The 7 months of our relationship were the happiest time of my life. I’m not saying everything was perfect, because nothing is ever perfect, but I felt happy, fulfilled, supported. I felt _at home_ with you, Mycroft. I thought I had found that person I could settle down with and make a life together. A _shared_ life.” Mycroft’s eyes widened imperceptibly. Greg thanked God for that little sign, and steeled himself to continue.

“That night, you know, when I said ‘I love you’…. I didn’t plan it.” Greg saw Mycroft stiffening again, and hurried on.  “I love you, Mycroft. I didn’t plan to say it in that moment, but my feelings are and were sincere.”

Another micro-sign of relaxation.

“So, … although my feelings are sincere, I have to say that from me saying ‘I love you’ to now, I’m lost. I don’t understand what happened afterwards. I was genuinely happy to tell you my feelings. I was hoping… maybe you welcomed them. I even thought you knew already, with all your deduction techniques... I need help Mycroft, to understand.” Greg could not stop fidgeting. “Maybe you don’t like the words? You think it’s old fashioned or silly or only for youngsters… do you always react like that when someone tells you they 'love you’?” Greg looked at Mycroft, metaphorically keeping all his fingers crossed. He felt as if he was blindly walking on eggshells while carrying a washing machine.

“I do not know,” a feeble voice answered.

This statement did not help Greg much. “What do mean? Every time you hear an ‘I love you’ you don’t know whether you like it or not?”

Mycroft’s expression was showing a deep inner discomfort.  “Yours was the first ‘I love you’ addressed to me.”

Greg did not immediately get the full extent of this admission. “Yes, I know, you told me that you don’t do relationships. But what about when your parents, your siblings, or your friends said ‘I love you’ when you were a kid. I’m not only talking about ‘I love you’ in a romantic relationship.”

“The answer remains the same,” Mycroft’s voice dropped, cold and quiet.

Greg’s heart skipped a couple of beats. It couldn’t be right. As realization dawned, a surge of sorrow mixed with anger flooded his body, and he moved instinctively towards Mycroft. He was stopped mid-air by a steely glare. Greg exhaled loudly and decided he could not go back to sitting; he needed relief for the agony and distress he felt for Mycroft. He started pacing around the table. He needed to stay focused; he still had to clarify things.

“I …I am sorry, Mycroft. It should not be like this. I mean it. And, if you want, one day we can discuss this at length.” He wanted to punch someone. Starting with the Holmes’ parents. _How is that even remotely possible?_ However, he could not be overwhelmed by his anger yet. Biting his lips, he continued. “However, I still don’t understand completely. Were you scared by what I said? Don’t you trust in me enough to accept my love? Was it the first ‘I love you’ and you had problems handling it and sort of panicked? Why would you say that I can’t love you?”

The government official was intently looking at the not-so-clean tiles of his floor. He sighed. “It was not in the correct order.”

Greg tried to make sense of it, without much success. “Mycroft, I’m sorry. I’m trying hard to understand, but I still don’t get it. You mentioned rules last time I saw you. Now you talk about an order of things. I am not as smart as you are. Please, I need some guidance.” Greg paused and added, trying to convey all his affection with his voice: “You are extremely important to me.”

Mycroft expression softened a little, although his interest in the tiles remained.

“Gregory, you described your courtship of your former wife once. You dated, you reached a common resolution about desired life milestones, you shared a dwelling, you declared your love and then you married. In that order.”

Greg scratched his chin. He saw a flickering light of comprehension at the end of the tunnel that he had to follow. “So, the problem was that I said ‘I love you’ before the common resolution discussion and the common dwelling steps. Is that right?”

“Yes, and in particular we never discussed the common resolutions. Neither do we live together.”

 _Christ._ A scary possibility got a foothold in Greg’s brain. He uttered in a single breath, fast as a machine gun:

“Lemme be sure. So not in the right order, yeah? Knowing you and how that brain of yours functions, you must have concluded that our relationship wasn’t the serious type. We weren’t applying what you considered the rules of serious relationships, and the ‘I love you’ was misplaced. So not only was my saying that ‘I love you’ insincere, but our relationship could not have been serious.” Greg stopped breathless and looked at Mycroft, who nodded.

Greg took courage and continued. “The only other type of relationship we discussed was strictly casual. You must have concluded that we had a casual relationship. That was why you thought I was only interested in sex when we met at your place after the first arrest of the Ukrainian professor!”

A mixture of vulnerability and fear slipped across Mycroft’s expression. Greg understood that he was spot on. _What have I done?_ He had involuntarily hurt this gentle soul, quite badly.

“Mycroft, listen, although we never discussed it, I always ever wanted a stable relationship with you. Not casual at all. Rules in relationship are …flexible.” Mycroft stopped him with the movement of a hand.

Mycroft’s cheeks flushed pink. “Yes. When you said ‘I love you’, I realized that it was far too early according to what I understand are the rules of a committed relationship. If our relationship was not a serious one, it could only be a casual one. And love and casual are oxymorons.” 

“Mycroft, I’m sorry. I am so incredibly sorry. I….” Everything started to make much more sense and played at fast speed in front of Greg’s eyes. “You weren’t sure what I was looking for when I kissed you in your office, 10 months ago.”

Mycroft’s eyes scanned the ground, cheeks still flushed. “No, I was not. I had no idea what you wanted and in that moment, I would have taken anything you offered.” Mycroft swallowed. “If a single sexual encounter had been what you had proposed, I would have accepted it. If you had desired a causal arrangement, I would have been in agreement with it as well. However, I did not know what I was agreeing to.”

Greg looked at the man in front of him, who was usually running Britain and in that very moment was barring his soul to him. He asked gently, “Ok Mycroft, forget about what I wanted. What did you want? What do you want now?”

Mycroft cheeks got even redder, but he answered without hesitation.  “A committed monogamous exclusive relationship.”

 _Good Lord._ Greg’s heart soared.

“A committed monogamous exclusive relationship, yeah?” Greg teased gently, loving to see Mycroft’s cheeks tinged in pink.

“Yes,” Mycroft confirmed, not looking at him.

“I want the same.”

Mycroft’s mouth opened slightly while astonishment spread over his features.

Greg took Mycroft’s hand and pulled him up. He had to tilt his head slightly due to the height difference, in order to lock his eyes with those of the redhead. “Will you live with me?”

Mycroft opened his mouth even more, without being able to emit any sound.

“Mycroft, it is a sincere offer.”

“I…Gregory is it wise? It seems to me that we have many unresolved issues on the table…”

“I know.” Greg grinned. “We are doing this backwards. I know. Despite all the issues, Mycroft, would you like to live together? Can you stand my socks on the bathroom’s floor and my feet on the coach?”

Mycroft cocked his head on one side and pretended to accurately reflect upon it. “We might have to find suitable compromises, but in principle yes.”

Greg put his arms around Mycroft’s waist and pulled the man towards him. “I love you,” he said, kissing Mycroft’s chin. “I love you,” he continued, kissing the man on the cheek. “I’m going to tell you ‘I love you’ so many times that you can’t stand hearing it any more. I’m going to smother you with ‘I love you’.”

Mycroft smiled. A beautiful small sincere smile. “I do not think that will be possible,” he said, and kissed Greg on the mouth, hard.

 


End file.
